Page 63 of Inked in Bloom
“Shit.” The back of the robe wriggles as she finishes slipping her arms through the sleeves. I contain the smirk threatening the corner of my mouth. Monroe groans in annoyance, one gray ear flopping over the side of her head, the other perked straight up. “I knew this would happen.”
“It’s okay,” I reassure her, swallowing thickly at the memory of the inked stem that should be curving out from between the robe’s lapels. Wonder how she’s managed to conceal it. “You still shifted. Give yourself a moment to take that in before you give it another try.”
With a half-hearted huff, she snaps her eyes shut. This time, though, she doesn’t need my help. A few moments of focus and a wiggle of her nose and both ears roll back into place. Presumably the tail disappears as well, though I keep my attention upward, fighting my instincts. No one is immune to a fluffy tail—not even me.
Monroe bounces on her heels at the accomplishment, joy bubbling along our minimally tended bond. Mint irises meet my gaze and pearly teeth nip her bottom lip. The air sweetens.
I clear my throat, tugging the collar of my black button-up. “Well done, Dr. Tanner.”
“Thank you, Professor Briar.” She gives me a small curtsy, and we both chuckle until the moment is sliced by silence.
Is this the first time I’ve heard her truly laugh?
Warmth swims through my veins, the hum of my magic amplified through simply enjoying a moment of shared joy.
With her.
“Show me again,” I rasp, suddenly parched.
That earns another glare that I commit to memory. And though she grumbles a curse under her breath, that’s exactly what she does.
After our session,I head toward the Sprouts School to pick up my girls. The hour with Monroe is time I don’t take for granted. I’m surprised she didn’t insist on working with someone else when she was told she needed private lessons to graduate. Selfishly, I hope some part of her, even a subconscious one, wants the time with me.
It would only make sense that she would, despite not wanting to claim the bond. The alternative, allowing it to wilt and wither, is a painful process. The longer she rejects it, the farther the distance between us, the worse it will get. And while I am resigned to my suffering, when the unsatisfied bond’s sharp craving twists beneath my ribs, I’m sprung into action, hating the thought of Monroe in pain. She’s been through enough in her short stint here. Hurting even more because of me.
Squeals and the thud of tiny feet against soil thunder from the school’s entrance, and one by one my girls run into my arms with a force that punches the oxygen out of me. Not that I mind. Their boundless joy radiates from them, filling me with the warmth of four small suns.
“Daddy!” their sweet voices ripple from within our family tangle, and I press a kiss atop each of their heads.
As we head for home, they tell me about their day, and I play moderator, ensuring they each get an equal turn to share. When we get to the house, I make a tray of apple nachos topped with chocolate chips and an almond butterdrizzle. Taylor grabs a pitcher of lemonade and pours her younger sisters’ glasses, setting them out before getting one for herself. Within minutes, the tray is empty and they bolt for the backyard, their laughter filtering into the kitchen while I wash the dishes. I twitch my nose to dry them and return them to their cabinets, then spin myself into a dark-gray T-shirt and sweats.
Pivoting, I sprint outside for a quick game of tag. The girls giggle wildly and scatter in all directions. Taylor bounces with her hand pressed to the siding of the small storage shed, our makeshift home base. Lilliana and Juniper peek from behind tree trunks, and to my left, Millie dashes across the grass. “Ready or not, here I come!”
Stalking forward, I grin and take off after them.
Twenty minutes later, as I’m about to tag Millie, a pinch of discomfort wriggles between my ribs.
Shit.
“Daddy, are you okay?” she asks, brows nudged together. Her eyes are on my chest where I’m clutching my shirt, but the rest of her is poised to run if I’m pretending to be hurt.
This happens more frequently than I’d anticipated. She’s still not fully trusting that I won’t tag her, so I back up and sit against the shed. The other girls run over.
Taylor lifts my hand from my shirt and presses her head to my chest like she’s seen on TV. She doesn’t realize what they’re listening for, a heartbeat none of us carries. Not anymore.
She frowns at my chest, then up at me. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay, sweetie.” I pat my sternum playfully for emphasis, though the wriggle from earlier sinks deeper. “It’s just a tug from the invisible ivy.”
“Like the story?” Juniper asks, climbing into my lap.
“The very same,” I whisper conspiratorially. It’s theclosest thing I can think of to explain the bond. They know what it is, in an abstract sort of way, but I’m not going to tell them that the person on the other end would rather it be snipped and not exist.
“I don’t get it. Who’s tugging? We’re all right here, Daddy.” Lilliana points at her sisters and then at me. “How far does this vine reach? As far as you go when you’re earthside?”
Juniper’s eyes widen. “Farther?”
“Notthatfar.” I nuzzle her nose with my own.
